


Whimper

by ancalime8301



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Gen, shkinkmeme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-19
Updated: 2010-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-18 18:51:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancalime8301/pseuds/ancalime8301
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, death is just a whimper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whimper

**Author's Note:**

> The end of the prompt was so beautifully put that I had to use it in the fic (it's also the source of the title).
> 
> Written for a [shkinkmeme](http://shkinkmeme.livejournal.com/) [prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/shkinkmeme/5516.html?thread=10235788#t10235788): _It's 6am, I'm about to get off work. Worst day of work I have ever had. Ever. I can't even comprehend....  
>  When depressed I read depressing fic. Don't ask me why.  
> I need some Watson seriously injured/ill. Brink of death....or dead. I leave it to you. I don't even know why I'm doing this anon. I am angry. So friggen angry. "a glorious death" "a violent death" "A sad death"  
> Somtimes, death is just a wimper. And only those that bend down and press their ear to the fithy floor can hear it. Death wimpered today. And for that, I hate it._

_A glorious death . . . a violent death . . . a sad death . . ._

 _Sometimes, death is just a whimper. And only those that bend down and press their ear to the filthy floor can hear it. Death whimpered today._

~

Watson had come on the six o'clock train from London to Sussex for a weekend visit, as he had on several occasions. This time, he was fit to burst with some news -something good, for he was beaming like the sun when it rose over the Downs- but refused to breathe a word of it until they sat with their after-dinner brandy and cigars in Holmes' study.

"Come December I shall be a retired man."

It was just September, but this was better than Holmes had dared to hope. They sat up late, discussing what would soon (finally) be their shared retirement, and it was past midnight when they bade each other good-night.

Watson never woke again.

Dead in his sleep of a diseased heart, the village doctor proclaimed. But it could not be, it just couldn't. A man like Watson, a better man than Holmes could ever hope to be, was better fit to die in a blaze of glory, fighting for Queen and country. Or to die nobly, protecting the weak or the merely foolish from blackguards intent to harm. Or to die selflessly from a malady acquired while caring for others, disregarding his own health so long as he could be of use.

What could have been, what should have been. These would be fitting, would proclaim Watson's character to all who heard of it.

Not this death of the old, of the weak, of the infirm. If any deserved such, it was Holmes, not Watson.

If any deserved to spend many happy years in retirement, it was Watson, not Holmes.

  
Holmes didn't live to see December.


End file.
